


Behemoth

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Ass Play, Bondage, Breeding, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Egg Laying, Forced Orgasm, Forced Pregnancy, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Interspecies, Monster breeding, Mouth Fucking, Nipple insertion, Orgasm Denial, Other, Oviposition, Pregnancy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sounding, Spitroasting, Tentacle Monsters, Tentacle Rape, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Washington Capitals, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 04:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21048053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It starts with Sasha's neighbour worrying about the stupid fish.When Sasha finds out what's behind that, it ends so, so much worse for him...Or: Putting "ovi" into "oviposition" ;)(~8k of Ovi getting tentacle dicked down + oviposition, the fic's basically in the tags, and what is advertised there is exactly the fic, you do the math)





	Behemoth

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I have a lot of opinions regarding tentacle porn, so tentacle porn is what was written. It's grown quite long, unexpectedly. Enjoy, I guess?
> 
> Please heed the tags. They are there for a damn good reason!
> 
> Original prompt at the kink meme was literally this fic's one-sentence summary: "Putting the Ovi in Oviposition hahaha ;)))))"  
So that's what this became.
> 
> Due to the non-con + the explicit nature of this fic, it is posted anonymously, lol

One day, there’s a note in Sasha’s letter box, from Ilya, his neighbour. 

Sasha, fix your pond, the fish are weird.

But considering Sasha knows exactly nothing of fish and wouldn’t even recognize normal fish behaviour, let alone weird one, he crumples it up and ignores it. Figures that someone as crazy about fish as Ilya would try to spread his weirdness to Sasha. Which is to say: he doesn’t not care about the pond and its fish, it’s just…he only picked the fish because he wanted a natural pond to swim in and those apparently needed fish to keep clean.

Whatever, he might call the landscaping company to fix it, if it smells weird or something.

/

A few days later, Ilya rings at his doorbell. He’s wearing rubber boots and a serious expression. “Sasha”, he says, “Go have that pond of yours checked. It’s weird. There are fish streaming into my pond, it’s ridiculous.”

Internally, Sasha just rolls his eyes. Shouldn’t Ilya be glad if there are more fish? Why is it his pond that has to be fixed? As far as he’s aware, their ponds are connected to a smaller river, some artificial diversion from it that had been dug when the houses had been built, to drive up the price. Worth it, in Sasha’s opinion. 

Not his fault that Ilya used his pond to breed fish to eat or whatever it is that he did there, with his ph-balancing here and his natural aerisation stuff there. Whatever. Sasha’s eyes turned glassy whenever Ilya started up. And usually he could talk about problems with his “babies” extensively, if so much as one fish did the fish equivalent of sneezing. 

/

A week after that, it’s Ilya again, except this time, he’s wearing rubber pants up to the mid of his belly and he’s carrying two huge buckets. One of it is filled with water and packed to the brim with living fish squirming around. And the other is filled with…fish remains, it looks gross, if Sasha’s honest. The smell is even worse.

“Your fish”, Ilya says and puts the buckets down.

“What.”, Sasha just says, looking at them. It might be his, yes, but then, they looked like any other fish out there, grey and slimy and shiny.

“All yours”, and then Ilya’s boot taps against the bucket with dead fish. They look gross, as if squeezed to death, which…is weird, didn’t cats and other animals just usually eat them?

“Sure they’re mine?”

“You’re the only one around who keeps them. The last two weeks, they’ve been flooding my pond, basically. I tried throwing them back, but they always tried to get away from whatever’s at yours. And last night, the dead fish came. Whatever Silent Hill shit is going on in your pond, fix it! I don’t want any of that American nonsense in my pond! What if it gets to my babies?”

Sasha sighs, deeply, and promises to have it looked at immediately. Right now. He’s going to close the door and call the company, Ilya, promise!

Ilya looks at him as if he’d just buy a pitch fork to shove it up Sasha’s ass if Sasha’d bail on that promise, but after a moment, he nods and whirls around to go home. 

And Sasha does call, because he’s sure weird fish people like Ilya would dig out mean fishing equipment just to fuck with him if he’d cross them, so calling a company is easier.

Except they tell him that, unfortunately, they’re all booked out until the mid of the next week. But at least they’re helpful enough that they give him tips on how to fix the thing by himself – or at least not make it worse, if possible. Apparently in most of the cases it’s a simple blockage of the water ways: sometimes leaves and stones and trash might get stuck and keep the water from running into his pond, which destroys the water equilibrium or something, Sasha doesn’t exactly listen. He’d understood as much as he needed: check water drain, knock blocking loose, reap benefits. Namely, a non-irate Ilya. Success.

He hangs up, writes Ilya a note on what the problem’s probably going to be and that he’s going to look at it, and sticks it to Ilya’s front door. Not going to risk talking to him again before the issue’s solved, if he can help it.

Which he can! Thankfully enough.

Sasha grabs a rake, a shovel, and a bucket. And the thick gardening gloves. Usually, he isn’t the most keen gardening expert – it’s what he has the landscaping company for, they make his garden look pretty. 

He barely remembers to put on the thick rubber boots, to not get wet feet, before he trudges off to the pond. 

Soon, he’s glad for wearing them: metres before actually stepping to the pond bank, his feet are ankle deep in water, the grass long since turned into half-rotten greenish-brown gunk. And it’s supposed to be another five to seven metres before he should be even close to water, let alone this. Weird. Doesn’t look as if there’s too little water streaming to the pond, for sure!

He walks up to where the drain enters his grounds and – oh, shit.

It’s ripped open. Legit looks as if some animal or something tore the ground open, ripping out the tubes and pipes as if they were toys – Sasha can see one up in the willow, for fuck’s sake! Embedded in the wood, which did require a lot of force.

Something uneasy settles low in Sasha’s belly as he squats down. This is really weird – who did that? What did something like this? What did something get from ripping out the pipes and flooding Sasha’s garden? Because that’s all it did, the fences are alright, not even so much as bent. All normal, except that there’s now water streaming into Sasha’s garden, turning it into some kind of mud and water party.

Well, looks like he’ll have to call the company again; that fixing would have to be extended –

Something splashes.

Sasha stills, the uneasiness slamming into him, and he can feel his heartbeat pick up. Nonsense, that was just a fish, there still are fish probably, having the time of their lives in their now-extended kingdom – except this doesn’t feel like fish.

He stands up. His neck prickles and goose bumps break out all over his body. There’s another splash. It does not sound like a fish. Or it’d have to be a really big –

There’s something. 

Maybe.

Just from the corner of his eyes, he could’ve sworn he’d seen something gliding through the water. Dark and long and thin and definitely not shaped like any fish he’d ever seen. Ever.

He turns around, grip around rake and shovel white-knuckled, ready to power-march back home and leave this all be, cursed be Ilya for forcing him to deal with this and curse the company for suggesting to fix this –

One step. 

That’s all he manages –

Before something coils around his right ankle and pulls, with a verocious force, knocking him off his feet. It hits him completely unexpected, so he flails as he goes down, dropping his tools – and then he crashes into the ground, mud and grass drenching him to the bones immediately.

Cursing wildly, he sits up to fix whatever he must’ve stepped into and which is still latched firmly around his ankle.

But then he sees it and the words die on his lips.

It’s – it’s monstruous, that’s all he can think of, all his head can come up with as he sits, frozen, staring at the – thing whose…what is it, even? Tentacle? Is that what it is? It’s thick, easily as wide as two of Sasha’s fingers, and that’s one of the thinner ones. In the maelstrom of squirming, slimy tentacles, there are thicker ones: as wide as Sasha’s lower arm, as wide as his thighs, although those move around much less. The thinner, the squigglier they are, and there are more of them too. 

The – thing doesn’t do anything, just leaving its tentacle where it is, firmly around Sasha’s ankle. Loose enough that circulation isn’t cut off but too tight to slip out of the grip, if Sasha dared moving. Which he doesn’t. It’s as if he can’t – he wants to be literally anywhere else, at home – home, which is maybe fifty metres away, if that much, the balcony’s right there, the arm chairs, everything, he can see it, it’s right there –

But it might as well be a world away, it’s so far.

And Sasha can’t even scream, mouth shut in terrified fear – getting out of this would require moving and he can’t even manage to twitch a finger, let alone do anything else.

More and more tentacles squirm out of the water as the thing rises from the depths, growing like a behemoth – is it going to kill him? Eat him, like it must’ve eaten the fish? Is that it?

A second tentacle slithers up to his foot, bumping against his foot – and it rips him from the paralysation. Leaving whatever it is he brought with him, Sasha jerks upright, keen on getting out of here, with nothing but his life, he starts to run.

The tentacle stays relaxed, but when it realizes what he’s about to do, it tightens, tensing up – and more and more tentacles slither from the thing as Sasha tries to fight his way out of it. Digs his finger nails into the tentacles wrapping themselves around his wrists and hands and he bites, as hard as he can, jaws grinding, and something bitter and salty explodes in his mouth, before the tentacle slips out. Small success: Sasha jerks and writhes and kicks, with all his might -

The thing simply wraps more and more tentacles around him, pulling him in. Slowly at first, but then thick tentacles curl around Sasha’s belly, as big as his upper arm, and more around his thighs, his calves, his arms, around his throat, until he can do barely more than jerk, even when putting in all his force.

His heart is beating wildly, half out of fear, half out of adrenaline from fighting for his life. Except now that he’s almost completely immobile, the thing doesn’t do anything. Just keeps him all locked up. 

Sasha opens his mouth, scream already on his lips – except the tentacle around his throat tenses, once, as if warning him. He swallows – and keeps silent.

A tentacle bumps against his lower back, making him jerk in surprise. As much as he can, anyways. There’s nothing he can do as it slithers down, across his ass – and then, the thicker tentacles ease up around his belly, for some reason, instead slipping up and down and curling around his chest and hips. Another tentacle slithers around his belly, and after a moment, it slips under the shirt, making Sasha shiver as the thing touches his bare skin. It’s cool and slimy as it pats around. 

Whatever it is that it is looking for, Sasha does not know. But it appears to have found it – because suddenly, the tentacles start – writhing. As if a frenzy has caught them, coiling around him, bumping, wrapping around him, wriggling like, well, snakes, trying to touch him.

It doesn’t make any sense and Sasha’s not sure what to make of it, so he keeps still: the tentacle around his throat hasn’t moved at all, still snug against his skin. 

-  
And then the tentacles start pulling on his clothes. On his pants, his socks, his shirts, and Sasha can’t move to pull them away as they rip and tear and pull, the fabric cutting and pulling against his skin, and he makes a noise – no, tries to make a noise. He doesn’t get very far before it is aborted: the tentacle pulls tight, thick coil tensing.

He swallows, thickly, and closes his eyes, hands balled to fists as he feels how there’s one tentacle, and then another wriggling around and figuring out how to pull the pants off his hips. Surely, this cannot be happening, not to him, not this, not now.

A wet, slick bump against his bare hips, and then the dry, warm fabric is pulled down his legs. The tentacles are cool and wet against his thighs and Sasha shudders with – something. Down, down the pants go, and the skin they leave bare is immediately covered by more tentacles slithering around, wrapping around him. Down and down and they’re gone and Sasha’s naked.

The tentacles turn towards his shirt. On his belly, their damp chill makes him shiver and break out in goosebumps as they pull the fabric up. Tentacles writhe around, across his nipples – he gasps –

A tentacle slips into his mouth, before he can bite down, and it presses against his tongue, slipping deeper until he gags and now he is biting down – it stills, but the tentacle around his throat tenses further, but Sasha’s not letting go. His throat aches with how much he wants to gag at the tentacle that’s too close to the back of his throat and he needs it gone, now, it must go –

Around his throat, the tentacle tightens further, until Sasha’s huffing quick, fast breaths, hands scrambling for a grip to pull them off, to rip them off his body. Tighter. His legs kick – or try to, at least, but they, too, are caught in a strong hold that allows him nothing beyond a twitch. Breathing is difficult and every gasp he manages is just enough to extend the panic, to feel how little air he is all over again.

The tentacle in his mouth pushes into his throat. Excruciating slowly. If Sasha had the air, he would’ve screamed at the feeling of the tentacle thrusting deeper, and he keens, voicelessly, noiselessly, as he feels it slipping down. His throat. Every movement, every wriggle, he can feel it – like his throat is too thin between the tentacles, his Adams apple uncomfortably tight against the tentacle coil.

They still and the one around his throat loosens. Barely. Enough that Sasha can breathe again, and the panic settles slightly, enough that he feels less like being strangled. But still. Even like this, he’s hyperaware of the tentacles – less so of the ones around his body, because they’ve mostly stilled as well. They’re there, of course, holding him.

And then, something trickles down his throat. At first, he can barely feel it, just a wet feeling, but soon, he can feel it: a liquid running down his throat. Reflexively, he swallows – and that makes the flow stronger, because yes, it is coming from the tentacle, and as he swallows, it pours out more liquid. Sweet-smelling, like flowers, sticky and thick, syrup, it runs down his throat, and he wants it to stop, wants to make himself stop, but it’s like a reflex, his body realizing there’s something going to his belly and something in his mouth, so surely he must swallow it. And every time he does, he can feel the thickness of the tentacle, how it fills his throat.

Then, the numbness starts setting in. 

In his legs, growing heavy – he tries to jerk them, even in the tentacles’ hold, but it’s rapidly becoming useless. At first, he manages a twitch, but it’s a herculean effort, moving a mountain, as if control is slipping from him. Soon, so much as wriggling his toes is impossible.  
He can still feel the tentacles on his skin, so they’re not gone – yet –

More sweet syrup in his mouth, making his tongue tingle before the tentacle readjusts and pours it down his throat again.

The – not quite numbness. Loss, rather, loss of his body control. Like waves, slowly pulling him under. His arms are starting, too, fingers tingling before they grow stiff when he tries to clench them. He looks to the sides, willing, no, forcing his hands to clench, but it stays open, and the feeling slithers up his arms.

More stickiness.

The feeling slithers up, up, up, his hips, shoulders, pooling in his belly, and upwards, upper body, and he falls limp into the tentacles hold, weight caught by them, until, finally, his head lolls back.

Immediately, the tentacle pulls back from his throat, and fuck, he doesn’t even gag even though it goes backwards, up his throat and he wants to gag, wills his body to show anything at all. But it doesn’t. He’s caught inside his own body, floating along, at the beast’s mercy.

Around his throat, the tentacle lets go, supporting his head instead and holding it up.

Tentacles slither around him, moving the shirt up, and now with him offering no resistance, they easily manage to pull it over his head, baring him completely. He’s now naked, body no longer under his control, and there are these things holding him, ready to do whatever they want to do with him.

He wants to close his eyes against whatever it is that will happen to him now, wishing himself so far, far away, but it is of no use: there is no escape for him.

A tentacle bumps against his cock –

Fuck, no. 

Of course he’d known – had feared it, really, he’s seen some porn like that, yeah, but watching and being right in the middle of one are two completely different things and now there’s this thing, slimy and wet, wrapping around his cock, and pulsing, writhing – 

It is so bizarre to feel himself get hard without the accompanying arousal. There’s nothing to this beyond physical stimulation. Sasha can’t help getting hard, but he’s not aroused, and there’s no way to dream himself into any different scenario: the feeling of the tentacle is so foreign, he cannot interpret it differently even if he tried. And he does, badly. 

But then, smaller tentacles coil around his balls. If he could’ve winced, he would’ve – they don’t actually do anything, nothing beyond light touches, not yet, but they’re there.  
And gently rubbing against his balls, kneading them, almost, and the mix of fear what they could do and the feeling of what they’re actually doing to him gets Sasha’s body there.

Suddenly, the tentacles still and another one wraps around the base of his cock, tightly. Sasha wants to flinch away from it, from the tentacle and how it would rip it off – but it doesn’t. It is a snug band at the base of his cock, and then the other ones start up again. 

Except this time, their touches make his cock ache, a low heat in the depth of his belly. He wants to groan – for them to pull off and to –

More tentacles slither around his cock; their slick pulsing feels like no blowjob ever has, neither has any sex, like they’re lighting up his cock from base to tip, an irresistible draw, milking him. The ones against his balls do a similar movement, tightening and loosening, except they’re also slightly pulling his balls. But before that could hurt, they stop, only kneading his balls, just so balancing on a fine line of arousal and pain Sasha hadn’t known to exist yet –

It almost hurts with how good it feels and his cock aches, throbs –

There’s a thin tentacle at the tip of his cock, spreading his slickness, and if he could moan at the feeling, he would, but as it is, he lies there and takes the feeling. This one is so thin, it feels so different to the other ones –

\- And then it pushes into his cock.

Sasha recoils – except it doesn’t make a difference, does it, his body is not going to follow him, not now, so as much as he wants to pull away, his body doesn’t. Lies there. And feels the thin tentacle wriggling into his cock.

The other ones don’t stop. If anything, their ministrations grow more intense and this mix of arousal and pain and utter weirdness from the thin tentacle – his body, apparently, has less qualms about what to make of this than Sasha does. His cock stays hard as he can feel the tentacle wriggle down and down, just to withdraw slightly – and push back into his cock. And again, thrusting and withdrawing.

Fucking him. 

Fucking his cock.

God, does this know no end? He hadn’t even known this was possible, that this could be done, to him. But the tentacles just do it, in a patiently slow rhythm, until Sasha’s body is shivering, trembling in arousal, yet even then, they just continue until he’s aching, tense –

His hips start rolling up into the movement. He hadn’t noticed that he could move beyond the numbness, and admittedly, it’s not much, but they are, as if his body can’t help himself, as if it needs more – no, wants more. Fucking himself on the tentacles more, beyond his control.

He needs to come. Oh, he needs to. The ache is worsening, thickening, his cock aching and throbbing and the tentacle fucks him faster, in tiny, short thrusts, barely even pulling back before pushing into him with a rush and –

There are noises spilling from his throat, his mouth, as he pushes his hips up, body clenching and trying to come – but he can’t. His cock throbs and his balls hurt, caught in orgasm, but he’s not coming and it hurts –

The tentacle in his cock has stilled, pushed inside. Around his cock, the tentacles have stilled, so he’s riding out the orgasm that wasn’t in its whole length.

It burns and simmers and rushes through his body and the arousal is all-encompassing and he needs the pressure on his cock to go, but it isn’t, it stays –

A tentacle behind his head gently lifts him, until his head lolls forward, at which he’s caught – and a tentacle slips into his mouth, almost gently, as it holds him. Like this, he can see his cock.

It’s obscene. Hard and flushed and smeared in slick, tentacles wrapped around it like a weird sex toy – but that’s not the worst thing. No, much worse is the thin tentacle, visibly pushing into the slit of his cock and how it makes his cock look even stiffer, tighter, worse. 

He can’t come because he’s all plugged up.

A second, much thicker tentacle pushes into his mouth, and a third one, just as thick. Their pace is slower, but they thrust deeper, going to the back of his throat, just to withdraw. And as one pulls back, the other one pushes in, a rhythm that will make sure his mouth is always stuffed, always full, and his jaw aching.

Helplessly, he watches as his legs are spread, and that’s the last he sees before his head is tipped back again so his weight is settled back against the writhing bed of tentacles. 

Now he is left to feeling it again. Being spread like this – and he is, legs wide open until the tentacles lift them. Sometimes, they bump against his cock, his balls, every touch like a flash. At least the ones there have stopped – doing what they were doing, staying still and right where they are.

And then, Sasha feels a tentacle at his asshole.

No.

Except, yes, for the tentacle: it rubs against his asshole – and isn’t that too tight for anything to fit, what are they doing, they’re going to split him apart –

The tip pushes in. And pulls out. And in. 

In his mouth, the tentacles pick up speed, making spit trickle down Sasha’s lips and jaw and throat, and the noises are sloppy as it…well, fucks him. 

The tentacles against his balls start again, except this time, every bump, every massage is an aching arousal, low and burning, and Sasha doesn’t quite feel the second tentacle slithering against his ass until it, too starts fucking into him.

Just the tip, too, and not unlike the ones in his throat, except much thinner. Almost teasing. And don’t they feel slightly wetter, too? A thick slickness, as they fuck into him, just lightly. Not even deep, not the slitting, ripping pain Sasha would’ve expected. 

And a third one settles in the rhythm, their pace so fast and their depth so shallow that it’s a rush against his rim, wet and wriggling, before it’s pulling out. Or pushing in. Or both? Two of them at the same time? 

Sasha’s not sure – until he is, when one tentacle pushes deeper. It’s thin enough that it almost doesn’t hurt beyond a slight twinge, but even that, too, is soon forgotten as the other two keep on their game. The third one wriggles deeper, before pulling out minimally, a much slower pace. 

The ones around his cock start up again, too. A similar speed as the one fucking his ass. It – it’s not quite arousal, but there’s clearly something going on and Sasha can’t name it, but it’s there, as the tentacles jerk him off and fuck him, both in the ass and the mouth and he’s so full, body heavy.

He’ll come again. He will. His body’s tensing up again, and this time it is not the same rush as the first time, more like the dragged-out tremble of a wave, but it will come and so will he –

Except he can’t. His cock throbs, almost painfully, trying despite all to pump out an orgasm, but the tentacle plugs him up nice and tight and his hips jerk up – 

The other two tentacles push into his ass, in one long rush, so right when he does come – half comes – does not come -, his ass clenches around three tentacles, suddenly, and clenches, pulses, pushes, but they stay. Right inside him, wriggling against the rim as his whole body tenses and tries to come.

Only the ones in his mouth keep going, but Sasha barely notices them, even though his jaw starts aching in exhaustion and there’s drool trickling down his body.

This time, it takes him much longer to get down, get back to where he is, and the arousal is much stronger, much more burning, and he could come right now, a real orgasm, it is that strong. Would come, too. His balls hurt. Mercifully, the tentacles leave them alone.

Instead, the ones in his ass start fucking him in earnest. Their thrusts and pushes are surprisingly slick as they wriggle deeper and deeper, as if to discover every nook and cranny and they…stretch him out? As if learning his body, deeper and deeper and it should ache, shouldn’t it, he is not made to take something this deep, but they don’t care.

They’re growing thicker at the end, too, and his asshole clenches at the slowly thickening tentacles, as much as it can. Which is not much: they keep it spread, helplessly stretched around three tentacles thrusting deeper and deeper.

His head is lifted again, and the way it lolls towards the three tentacles mindlessly fucking his mouth, his throat spasms and gags, before more tentacles gently hold the weight of his head. He looks down, because this is what they want him to see, and he sees –

His slightly swollen belly, almost looking as if he’d had a heavy meal. And his cock, just as obscene as the first time, with the tentacle plugging him. His balls are more flushed, and they definitely feel heavier. He’s not sure if anything about them changed.

The tentacles inside him press against him and up and it feels so strange – and then he can see them, pushing against his belly from the inside. Oh, god.

He closes his eyes, and the pressure of the tentacles loosens again.

Like this, he misses the fourth tentacle slithering up.

He does feel it when it pushes in – or tries to, at least. No way will there be space for another tentacle –

But there is. The other three push outwards, as if to make space and doesn’t that just make sense now? Making room for another one. It wriggles in, despite his ass trying to clench shut, but it’s useless, he’s stretched out enough. Enough for it to slip in and push in and wriggle deep.

It’s thicker and bumpier, not as smooth and slick as the other ones, and Sasha can see it as it slithers up, deeper and deeper into him, until it stills. His belly looks ridiculous like this, stretched out.

He muffles a noise against the tentacles in his mouth, garbling out more drool, dripping down his throat, as he can feel thinner tentacles on his rim. At first it’s only one, but then it’s two, three, four, he loses count of them. Wriggling and squirming against his rim, not even pushing in, just rubbing and kneading his rim. 

The ones against his cock pick up again, and the ones in his mouth thrust deeper, fucking into his throat. Tears prickle in his eyes at that, and he’s not sure if it’s solely a physical thing.

Every time the ones in his throat pull out, more drool drips down his body, running down the tentacles, turning him into a mess. 

Sasha looks at his swollen, hard cock, as it is jerked and teased, and it looks so obscene whenever the tentacles are tightly wrapped, because it makes his tip look even worse, with the tentacle going into him. Into his cock. Locking him up tight. 

There’s a weight at his rim. 

He can’t see what it is, only that it’s there, something thicker trying to press in. Not another tentacle, something else he cannot name.

The three tentacles curl outwards, and miraculously, they are able to stretch his abused rim just that tiny bit more so whatever it is can now slip in. 

He whimpers low in his throat as his asshole slowly closes behind the thick thing. The other tentacles allow it, so he clenches tightly. 

The weight is pushed up, wandering deeper into his body. He can’t see it against the skin, and thank god for that.

Deeper and deeper it follows the thicker tentacle, until – it is pushed out? It settles into his body, no longer within the tentacle. What -?

Another weight at his rim. 

Oh no. No, no, no. Is it laying eggs? Inside him? Is that what’s happening? Is it using him for that? He chokes against the tentacles in his mouth, but they just fuck deeper inside him, carelessly, as his ass is stretched again. Again the three tentacles push his rim open and the weight – no, egg, it is an egg, the thing is laying its eggs in him – the egg is travelling up the tentacle, just like the first one, until it is settled there too.

And a third one. This time, the tentacles don’t stretch his rim and Sasha keens against the tentacles gagging his throat as the egg pushes into him, stretching his asshole as the thinner tentacles rub against it. They’re massaging him so he’ll take the egg better, so his ass will take it –

The egg travels up much faster, except apparently not quite to where the thing wants it to be, because the tentacles move it. Inside his belly, as if he’s no more than a warm incubator.

He probably isn’t, for this thing.

A fourth egg. And a fifth. Sixth. Seventh. Eighth.

They’re heavy inside him, filling him up. The more this thing pushes into him, the more the tentacles withdraw – if they’re happy with where the eggs are. Sometimes, they push some eggs around. Sasha can see the bulge of it against his belly.

Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. 

The more eggs they push into him, the more the tentacles withdraw, until only the one dumping the eggs into him is left.

Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.

There’s no twentieth egg. For the moment, at least, but even nineteen eggs make Sasha’s belly swell, round and heavy with it. A horrible baby bump.

Tentacles slither up, gently rubbing against the curve of it, and the eggs inside him move around slightly, as if recognizing the touch. 

Sasha wants to recoil, wants to – to curl around himself and not be there, but the tentacles are still holding him, still wrapped around him and pushed deep into him, everywhere.

Except they aren’t, apparently. Except this thing is not done with him, wanting more. And taking it, too. 

Tentacles brush against his nipples, and at first, he barely notices the gentle touch – but then, they wrap around his nipples and pull and it almost feels like someone sucking on them, harshly, close enough that his body is fooled and he does not want it to feel good but it does.

Against his rim, the small tentacles start again. Nothing’s pushing into him. Nineteen eggs still. 

After all this stretching and fucking, his asshole is sensitive and every brush makes him gag tiny whimpers against the tentacles fucking his throat. 

The tentacles play with his nipples as if they are their new toy, everything else forgotten – they don’t pull out, but that’s all, they don’t do anything else and they are harsh enough against Sasha’s nipples that it aches, but they’re also slick enough and rubbing just so that it feels good and they are merciless, no break, nothing, until Sasha whines against the tentacles. The noise is choked from him as the tentacles push deep, both of them, and there’s no air, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he tenses, he clenches, and his ass stabbing pain at the tentacles stretching him wide, wide open.

There’s a twinge at his nipples, burning, and he looks down, the tentacles allowing him the movement, so he can see how there are two hair-thin tentacles pushing into his nipples. 

It should be impossible. There’s nothing to push into, what are they doing? But they don’t care, they do it regardless; while they look thin, against his body they feel finger-thick at least, and Sasha spasms, half-panic, half-breathless –

In his throat, the tentacles ease. There’s the sweet-slick taste again, and he’s too exhausted to fight it trickling down, so he swallows.

The floating numbness follows soon after and he slackens again, even more limp now.

His nipples are massaged even more, tips of tentacles really kneading his skin. He keeps his eyes closed. There’s nothing he wants to see, not this. Not that he wanted to see any of this, but this…no.

A moment later, the ones at his asshole start a similar treatment, and if he’d been sensitive there before, this is nothing to what he is becoming now.

Second tentacles on his nipples, and they’re – too. Sasha breathes, and swallows against the tentacles more, that’s basically all he can do, and they get it, apparently, because more sweetness trickles into him. 

Somehow that makes it easier to take, even as there are tentacles fucking him in every way he can be fucked.

Before long, his nipples ache, but the tentacles don’t stop. All that does is signalling the other ones to start again, apparently: soon, another egg is nestling against his ass.

This time, it slips in easily, his rim stretching and accommodating easily – soothingly, a wet tentacle rubs across his chest, his too-sensitive nipples, before settling lower and gently cupping and brushing over his belly. The eggs inside him squirm, but easily re-settle as the twentieth egg is pushed to its place.

More eggs follow. Pushed into him, rolling against the others. His ass is spreading around them, and every egg he takes without problems, he is rewarded with slick being rubbed into his nipples and a particularly good curl around his balls.

Twenty-five, twenty-six, Twenty-seven.

How many more will there be, how many eggs can he take, he wonders, as more and more are pushed into him. He hasn’t looked at his belly yet, but it feels huge and tight and stuffed beyond the brim. 

The tentacles push in the thirty-second egg, and it barely settles inside him, asshole stretching from the inside as he is too full to take it. Too much.

Soothingly, he is made to swallow more slick, dimly aware of how there’s this pressure on his nipples, too, like there’s something pushing where it shouldn’t push and stretching what is not meant to be stretched. He won’t look. Can’t. His eyes flutter shut.

His balls – heavy and burning hot and aching so badly – are lifted, almost gently, and pulled lightly. Just a tad, just so until he whines – and clenches, tightly, at the curl of pain, and his ass pulls in the thirty-second egg. It barely closes, the weight of the egg right behind the rim.

Immediately, his balls are let go again and whatever breath he’d held he lets loose again. 

No more. He wants to beg: no more. His belly is so full, impossible to stuff even a single egg more into him. 

Almost lovingly, tentacles curl around his belly, gently rubbing against the taut skin that feels too-thin. Sasha swallows, as more tentacles carefully pet his belly. For taking the eggs? For harbouring them all?

Finally, the tentacles at his rim slip away and he whines at the flick of a tip against his too-sensitive, too-swollen rim – but it leaves him in peace. His ass clenches around nothing, but the weight of the egg is right there, teasing him, threatening to push out again at the smallest movement. 

Slowly, the other tentacles pull out, too. His nipples throb angrily, raw in overstimulation. It feels so wrong to feel something withdraw from them, and his chest aches, skin hot and tight, too and he – he’s not looking, he doesn’t want to see. Not that. 

The tentacles around his balls and cock are the second last to go; first the one around his balls, slowly uncurling, until his balls are free again, and they ache with how tight and heavy they are. Too much…and then the tentacle in his cock moves.

Sasha can’t even twitch as it pulls out, inching out, and oh, oh no. There’s a pressure right behind that, his cock’s still so hard, even if the mad rush of an orgasm is missing –

\- as soon as the tentacle has pulled out, there’s the wet smatter of come against his belly. A spurt, another, and then it trickles out of his cock, dripping out.

His hips roll up, up, looking for stimulation, for anything, for one of the tentacles to give him a taste of what they’d made him endure for so long, just one, to tip him over completely, but nothing. Nothing. Helplessly, wordlessly, he screams into the tentacles still stretching his throat.

He’s forced to come like this, from nothing, helplessly coming anyways, until his balls ache and his cock, too, and he can no longer go on. It is humiliating, even more so than coming on these things would’ve been: even without being touched by them, he’s orgasming. 

Only when he’s done, not a single drop spilling from him and he is wrung out, do the tentacles from his throat withdraw. At first one, pulling up and out, and then the other, until the only tentacles that are touching him are those he’s lying on. 

Sasha is too exhausted, too fucked-out to do anything except succumb to exhaustion and sleep.

&

There’s a thick, insistent pressure waking him up. A tightness that hadn’t been there, so Sasha wakes. 

Around him, it is dark, and there are leaves tickling him as he sits up – or tries to. He doesn’t make it far, barely managing to roll on his back – the sudden, heavy breathlessness forces him to curl back on his side.

God.

Not a dream, then.

Shakily, his hands move to his belly. If anything, it’s even larger than he’d dreamt – felt – than it had been, during. His skin is tight like a drum, swollen and hot and, as he touches his belly all over, huge. He’s round and…and pregnant. With these…things. 

Tears prick at his eyes, but he wipes them off angrily. There’s nothing to be done about what happened, but there definitely is about how he’ll deal with it. And he will. As soon as he’s figured out what to do.

His hands bump higher – against something that shouldn’t be big enough to bump, but now it is. A curve where none had been. Curves. Two. He touches his chest, but yes, they stay: swellings on his chest, and his nipples hurt when he touches them, so he quickly moves his hands away again.

He’s so terribly exhausted still, so he stays awake for not much longer, instead dozing off again.

&

The next time he wakes to twilight, without knowing how long he’s slept. The sun’s low, bleeding dark orange and red across the sky. Sasha rubs his face, and as soon as he is awake, he notices the heaviness in his belly.

He still doesn’t manage rolling on his back, but getting up is marginally easier, if he makes sure his belly is below him and cannot squeeze the air from his lungs. – Which also means that the weight pulls at him and that ache is…it’s a horrible one. 

His body is not meant to carry this weight, and twice-over not so suddenly, going from nothing, from a sports body to this, to something that is so utterly – different. 

Crawling on all fours has him panting in exhaustion worse than during bag skates, after only a few metres already. A break, lying on his back, catching is breath, only to roll back and go some more, to get away, get somewhere else. 

There’s bud smearing across his side, the next time he lies down, and he tries reaching at his back, to get a feeling at where he is…water.

Suddenly, his belly squirms, like fish – eels, writhing around and he makes a noise, something painful and wounded as he will them to fall still again. No such luck: they wriggle, low and deep in his belly as he scrambles to his hands and knees again – only to realize that they’re squirming to his right, to where he has touched water. As if to go there.

So he obediently crawls right, and the closer he gets, the worse the movements get. It almost hurts, but at least they’re not pushing out of his skin, ripping him open. They could, Sasha thinks, his skin feels so tight as if even so much as lightly pressing against his belly would have him burst.

He stumbles into the water, mud smearing everywhere, until the water is deep enough and he paddles. Swimming is right out, his belly is too bloated to anything more beyond some shallow movements to not drift off. His weight, the centre of gravity, all off. 

At least the weight’s almost gone in the water, even though his back is still bent from carrying the eggs. 

And the squirming has stilled, too, so Sasha breathes, as much as he can, as much as the eggs allow him, and enjoys the feeling. 

Then there’s a pressure at his ass.

No.

He panics, paddling towards the embankment, hands grabbing fistfuls of mud as he tries to crawl out, away from the pressure, except it’s not stopping and he clenches, but it gets worse and he – he forces his body as tight, as locked-up as it can be, until the pressure stops.

It stops. 

Huffing for air, he stills, lowering his head, not caring at all that he’s smearing filth over half his face. Safe. Safe again. 

But on land, his belly is heavy, aching, stealing his breath. And he can’t crawl further.

A ripple goes through his belly, like a series of too-tight belts cinching around him, and the pressure returns, much heavier, on his rim. From the inside.

Oh, no. They need to come out again. Of course they would, but this?

He stumbles back into the water, but like this, his belly is so low and he – he can’t relax enough to – to let it happen, to let them ---

In the water, there’s no comfortable position. Either he paddles, which means he cannot relax his ass nor push the eggs out. And if he wraps his arms around his legs, he could relax, but would not be able to paddle, risking drowning. 

The ripples are coming quicker, like waves against his belly. He must hurry.

In the end, he crawls to the shallower waters, kneeling down on his shins, and his legs are spread obscenely wide to accommodate his belly. Hopefully this will be good enough.

Another ripple, this one painful as rushes through his belly, and Sasha – pushes. At first, nothing happens, but then: there it is. The weight of an egg being pushed to his rim, against it, stretching him from the inside.

It’s much bigger than he remembers – has it grown?

Cold sweat breaks out over Sasha’s back. He pushes again, breath shallow as he gasps for air against the ripples, egg so close of slipping out of him yet his rim unable to stretch far enough and accommodate it. 

Another, sheer brutal ripple and Sasha screams hoarsely and pushes and with a wet pop, the egg slips free, and as if that opened floodgates, more eggs push up. Before his ass can cinch tight again, the second one pops out. Reflexively, his ass tries to tighten – no luck. More eggs push out. 

Each one goes easier than the one before. Sasha leans forward, breathing as deep as he can while pushing out the eggs that slip out. He doesn’t care where they’re going except they’re gone, gone from him, from his belly.

It takes a long time. Even though his rim soon is stretched and loose enough, the eggs slip from him slowly. He feels every single one as it leaves him. A weight, dropping from him. 

He cups his belly, which is no longer as grotesquely swollen, growing more and more normal the more eggs have been laid. Until, finally, the last one presses against his rim.

The first egg that had been put into him, he can feel it. Bigger than the other ones. He bends forwards, burying his hands in the mud, sweat dripping down his body as he pushes. Big. His rim strains against the egg and it takes him a long time until it stretches him open and pops out.

It is done.

It is over.

Exhausted, Sasha falls to the side, feet dangling in the water, smeared in mud, and rolls on his back, looking into the inky nothing of the night.

It is over.


End file.
